Manna from Hades (12 page)

“Jocelyn had a telephone call from someone . . . a police officer, could it be? Yes, of course, your niece.”

“Megan?”

“Er, yes. She seemed to be under the impression, if I’m not mistaken, that you were still staying here. At the vicarage.”

Eleanor didn’t want to confuse the poor man still further by asking why Megan hadn’t rung her at home. No doubt she’d been in a hurry. But if she believed Eleanor was still at the vicarage, she wouldn’t have had any reason to remind her to lock her doors, so her call must have had some other purpose.

Jocelyn had been in a hurry, also, to get to her meeting. Goodness knows how many messages had been lost in transit. She could only hope none were urgent. She was tired of the whole business.

She thanked the vicar once more for his concern and said good-night.

Nick brought her cocoa and sat down with his own on the other side of the fireplace. Eleanor had lit a small fire of driftwood earlier. Nick put another small log on. It crackled satisfyingly, flickering with multi-coloured flames.

“Lilac for potassium and green for sodium,” Nick said reflectively, gazing into the fire. “Or vice versa. Or possibly neither. Chemistry was not my best subject at school.”

“I’d have thought you’d remember colours, if nothing else.”

“I remember coloured flames, just not their significance. People do expect one to remember the most uninteresting things.”

“Like locking doors,” Eleanor said dryly, “and where one put one’s keys.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t getting at you, honestly. I have no difficulty understanding why you forget. Which isn’t to say I shall leave without making sure you lock up. I promised the vicar, and by proxy Mrs Stearns, terrifying woman.”

“I don’t believe for a moment that she terrifies you.”

“You’d be surprised. She’d never forgive me if the burglars came back and walked in without even having to pick the lock. Not that I think there’s much danger of them returning.” He sipped his cocoa. “You know, horrible as this has been for you, as far as I’m concerned it’s been extremely good for business. People come in to ask me what’s going on next door and, except for the reporters, most haven’t the cheek to walk out without looking round. Having got that far, a few find my work irresistible, or more likely they want something to prove they weren’t just being nosy. Mostly they’ve been buying the cheapest things they can find, the flower paintings, but I’ve sold five landscapes in two days.”

“It’s an ill wind—”

“And every cloud has a silver lining. It’s a pity LonStar can’t take advantage of it.”

“I suppose so, though in some ways I’m glad we can’t. But Nick, you haven’t been giving people information, have you?”

“Nothing more than they can read in the papers,” he reassured her, “recast in my own words. I don’t want the Scumble descending on me like a ton of bricks, believe me. Even if they don’t learn anything new, they like to hear it from the horse’s mouth. And now that’s enough proverbs and clichés for one evening. If you’ve finished your cocoa, you can just come down and let me listen to the sound of the back-door lock turning.”

He took both mugs to the kitchen, put them in the sink, and ran cold water into them.

“Thank you,” Eleanor said. “Stay, Teazle, you don’t need another outing.” She opened the door.

There was a jingling sound behind her and Nick laughed. “Here, haven’t you forgotten something?” He handed her the keys.

FOURTEEN

In spite of everyone’s worries for her safety, Eleanor slept much more soundly in her own bed than she had the night before at the vicarage. She woke to the clink of milkbottles outside and the sun glancing in aslant.

Even if it woke her early, she did like morning sun in the bedroom, she thought, lying there warm as an egg in its cosy. It was rare enough in this part of the world to be a treat.

“Wuff?”
Teazle climbed over her knees and came to lick her on the nose.

“Time to go out, girl? All right, just let me put on my dressing gown and slippers.”

Teazle scuttered down to the flat door and waited patiently. For once Eleanor found the keys right where they were supposed to be, on a hook in the kitchen. They went on down to the ground floor. Unlocking and opening the back door, Eleanor shivered in a brisk breeze off the sea. On the headland the sun shone, though. It was a perfect day for walking, and she hadn’t had a proper walk in two days, only up and down the village street.

“We’ll go to High Cliff later,” she told the Westie’s rear end, her front end being invisible under a blackthorn bush, still leafless but covered in white blossom. Somehow Teazle usually avoided getting scratched or pricked, though once she had come out with a thorn in her paw. “No one to see me practising, and plenty of rabbits for you.”

At the word
rabbits,
Teazle backed out, stumpy tail wagging furiously. If a cold, stiff, thoroughly uncomfortable policeman was hiding in the thickets somewhere, she didn’t bother to sniff him out.

They went in to breakfast.

Eleanor had just poured a second cup of coffee and was reaching for the telephone to tell Jocelyn her plans when it rang.

“Joce. You beat me to it.”

“I’ve just heard from the police that we’re allowed to reopen the shop today.”

“That’s wonderful. But you’ll have to warn the volunteers.” Eleanor explained what Nick had told her about the sensation-seekers. “You’re the only one who actually has any inside information, but everyone had better be careful what they say.”

“Luckily I’m on today,” Jocelyn said austerely. “Mrs Davies may not know anything, but I wouldn’t count on her to discourage gossip and speculation. On the other hand, it wouldn’t surprise me if one or two don’t want to come in today. Squeamish! Just let me see who’s scheduled—”

“You’ll manage everything perfectly as usual, Joce, I’m sure. I was thinking I might as well go out on my collecting round.”

“Yes, you’d better. I was about to tell you, Megan rang last night to say that the jewels have been identified as stolen, so I’m afraid we have no claim on them.”

“Not even if the thief had a change of heart and decided to give them to LonStar? No, I suppose not.” Eleanor couldn’t help being disappointed. With a sigh, she remembered her joy when she first saw what she had assumed was an exceedingly generous donation. “Well, it can’t be helped.”

“Speaking of the thief, or rather thieves, apparently the jeweller who was robbed gave a description of the men who attacked them, and they were nothing like the murder victim. Goodness knows where he sprang from.”

“Poor boy! How worried his family must be! If he wasn’t one of the robbers, perhaps he was trying to foil them.”

“Hah,” Jocelyn snorted. “More likely trying to double-cross them. I daresay he followed them down from London.”

“Oh, London! It was stolen in London?”

“So Megan told me, and I suppose she knows.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“A relief? Why is it a relief?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Joce. Just that London’s far away and somehow one expects that sort of thing to happen in big cities. I wouldn’t like to think of someone local being involved.”

“You can’t possibly have forgotten,” said Jocelyn, “that the murder took place in our own stockroom?”

“But if he followed the thieves from London—”

“That is pure speculation.”

It was Jocelyn’s speculation, not hers, thought Eleanor, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. However illogical, she still felt relieved that the robbery had taken place in the distant city. “I’m glad it was a jeweller who was robbed.”

“What on earth do you mean, Eleanor? What possible difference can it make?”

“Surely being robbed is an occupational hazard for jewellers. Suppose it had been family heirlooms that the owner was very attached to for personal reasons, not because of the value.”

“ ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.’ ”

When Jocelyn started quoting the Bible, Eleanor refused to compete, though she was sometimes tempted when an apt line from the Bhagavad Gita, or a saying of Lao Tzu, or even an African proverb came to mind. “Did Megan tell you anything else?” she asked.

“No, she had to hang up because she heard that man coming.”

“So it wasn’t an official notification. We’ll have to pretend not to know when we see Mr Scumble next or we’ll get Megan into trouble. I take it the vicar didn’t tell Nick, or he’d have told me last night.”

“I didn’t tell Timothy. It would only confuse him.”

“I daresay. Nick said he’s not telling inquisitive customers anything beyond what he’s read in the papers. I’d better buy one and see what they’re saying.”

“You’d better borrow Nicholas’s. If you walk into the newsagent’s, everyone will be pestering you for the inside story.”

“It all depends who ‘everyone’ is. I don’t mind the neighbours. Are there still a lot of reporters about?”

“I think they all went off to the news conference that man held last night. I shouldn’t think they’d be back. They must have just about all the pictures of the LonStar shop they could use in months. Not to mention the ones of you ducking behind Megan.”

“Oh, Joce, no! When I think of all the times I’ve tried in vain to get the newspapers interested in what we do at LonStar! The news conferences where no one turned up! If any reporters come back and approach me, I’ll refuse to talk about anything but LonStar’s work.”

“You can try. I must get going. Some of our volunteers haven’t got telephones. Oh, Eleanor, will you leave a list of places you’re going collecting, just in case the police decide they need to get in touch with you?”

“All right, though it won’t be very exact. Unless people let us know they have something to be picked up, I often call in at random.”

“Do your best,” Jocelyn commanded. “See you later.”

Eleanor went to her desk, found an old envelope, and did her best to make the required list. She hoped Jocelyn didn’t expect precise directions. Some of the places she called at regularly were hidden away in folds of the country, on lanes that were little more than cart-tracks, not marked on any road map she had ever seen. Some, even the postman probably didn’t know about; the inhabitants would pick up any letters at the nearest post office. Some, she suspected, were ancient cottages renovated without troubling the undoubtedly overworked county council for permits. She found them by chance or instinct, and returned to those that welcomed her by memory.

She had a good sense of direction and the lie of the land. Her memory was perfectly good for things that mattered, she thought, as she conscientiously locked the door of the flat behind her and the dog.

They emerged into the street and Eleanor again locked the door behind her. Few people were about so early in the day. Two housewives with baskets on their arms stood chatting outside the bakery opposite. Mrs Chin was sweeping the pavement in front of the restaurant. Farther down, Mr Dickinson was setting out boxes of local spinach and Jaffa oranges from Israel in front of his greengrocer’s shop. A young mother with a pushchair came down the opposite hill, from the direction of the school, not so much pushing as hanging on tight to stop the pushchair running away from her.

“Heel, Teazle.”

Mrs Chin gave Eleanor a shy wave as she passed, on her way up the hill to the newsagent’s. She went in. Mr Chin was buying cigarettes. “And I’ll take some Smarties for the kids,” he said, “but don’t tell the missus. Yeah, just a tube, not the box. Mustn’t spoil ’em. Morning, Mrs Trewynn.”

“Morning, Mrs Trewynn,” echoed Mr Irvin, the shop owner. “Morning, Teazle.”

“Good morning,” Eleanor said with a nod to each man.

“What can I do for you this fine morning?”

“I’d like the
Guardian,
please, Mr Irvin, if you have one left.”

“Sure you wouldn’t rather have the
Sketch
? They got a good photo, and spelt your name right, too.”

Eleanor blenched. “My photo’s in the papers?”

“Course. Only nacheral when it was you found the body. Here.” He took a copy of the
Daily Sketch
from the rack. “Page five, innit, Charlie?”

Mr Chin, born in Limehouse and christened Edward in honour of the Prince of Wales, was known to his friends as Charlie, in honour of the film character whose surname he didn’t quite share. “Page four,” he corrected, leaning against the counter.

“Right you are.” Irvin folded back the paper. “Look here, Mrs Trewynn.”

The blurred photograph could have been anyone from Myra Hindley to the Queen, except that the Queen would have been wearing a hat. Unfortunately, underneath was the caption, “Mrs Eleanor Trewynn, helping police with their enquiries.” It had been taken when Eleanor was on her way from the vicarage to the flat to tell DI Scumble about the jewelry. Her arm was clearly in the grip of DS Pencarrow, and no one could have told from the picture that Megan was protecting her from the reporters rather than foiling an escape attempt.

“Oh dear!”

Charlie Chin pointed at another photo, lower down the page. “Here’s the bloke you found. They’re asking for anyone that reckernises him to come forward. Cleaned him up nice, they have. What I heard was, his mother wouldn’t’ve known him.”

He and Irvin both gave Eleanor interrogative looks.

“That’s not true,” she protested. “Though I’m glad his poor mother didn’t see him. I hope someone recognises the photo and breaks the news to her before she sees it.”

The two men stood in solemn silence for a moment, as if at a funeral.

The newsagent quickly regained his habitual cheeriness. “And here you are in the
Guardian
—No, I tell a lie. They didn’t put your picture in the
Guardian
at all!” he said indignantly. “Just your name, spelt with an
i
and one
n
. Must be the
Telegraph
I was thinking of. Let’s take a look—”

“Oh no, thank you, please don’t bother. I’ll take the
Guardian.
”

“Go ahead and take the
Sketch,
too, on the house. Business ain’t never been better since you found the dead burglar. You wouldn’t believe the people that haven’t read a paper in years coming in to get the latest. If you don’t mind me asking,
did
you help the police with their enquiries?”

“Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I helped them quite a lot.” Eleanor looked at their expectant faces and went on quickly, “But I can’t talk about it. Sorry.”

“Oh well, never mind, eh?” He turned to take a large jar off a shelf. “Here goes, Teazle, here’s your aniseed ball.” He tossed the reddish brown sweet.

Teazle missed the catch and it rolled across the floor like a small marble, the dog in hot pursuit, her short legs skittering on the slick floor. She cornered it under a display of magazines but couldn’t get it out with either nose or paw. The men thought her antics uproariously funny.

This was a regular game the Westie always lost. Eleanor was pretty sure Irvin rigged it. He was the local darts champion and could probably have bunged the sweetie into Teazle’s open mouth from twenty feet. Besides, she was usually good at catching.

Still, he had his fun. She didn’t mind being laughed at. And she always got her treat in the end. Charlie, still chuckling, went over and fished it out for her and it went down with a couple of crunches that made Eleanor wince. She hated to think what it was doing to the little dog’s teeth.

“Thanks,” she said anyway.

“Oh, by the way,” said Irvin as she turned to go, “when’s the shop reopening?”

“Today. Mrs Stearns just told me.”

“Good. I got some stuff for you.”

“Summat that fell off the back of a lorry?” Chin asked derisively.

Irvin gave him a withering look. “Come off it, Charlie. I wouldn’t land Mrs Trewynn in that kind of mess even if there wasn’t swarms of coppers all over the place.”

“Hey, just kidding. Tell you what, Mrs Trewynn, I’ll make you up a couple of posters to stick up saying it’s back to business as usual.” As well as his expertise in Chinese cookery, Chin was a talented calligrapher—in the Roman alphabet. He had never learnt Chinese characters.

Eleanor was thanking them when the doorbell jangled and in came the two women who had been chatting in front of the bakery. Both put on unconvincing expressions of surprise. One said, “Oh, Mrs Trewynn, you’re here!”

She wasn’t acquainted with either beyond saying “Good morning” if they came face to face in the street. As far as she knew, neither had ever donated to LonStar or volunteered her time. All they wanted was the latest gossip about the murder.

But Eleanor was never one to let an opportunity pass. “I’ve just been telling these gentlemen that the shop will reopen today. I’m sure you’ll be delighted that we’re able to accept donations again. Now if you’ll just tell me when it will be convenient for me to pick up—Oh, Mr Irvin, I knew there was something else I needed. One of those sixpenny notebooks, please.”

She felt in her purse, but Irvin, grinning like the Cheshire cat, announced, “Consider it a donation, Mrs Trewynn. You’d better take the shilling one. It has a pencil attached.”

With the men watching gleefully, she wrote down the women’s names and addresses, grudgingly given, and the best time to call. “Perfect,” she said. “How kind of you. Well, I really must be on my way now. I’m collecting in the country today.”

“Back to work for me,” said Charlie Chin, and escorted her out so that the women had no chance to question her.

As they stepped into the street, she heard behind her Irvin enquiring, “Now, what can I do for you ladies this morning?”